


Envenomation

by Jothowrote



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Death, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Murder, Poisoning, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jothowrote/pseuds/Jothowrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will dreams of poison, which he decides makes a welcome change from blood and gore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Envenomation

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the brilliant [**disenchanted**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disenchanted)

Will surfaces from sleep with a drowning man’s gasp, clawing the blood from his skin. He catches the light switch with the heel of his palm and sees not blood but rapidly-cooling sweat on his arms and hands. He reaches up to brush the wetness from his forehead and that too is clear.

He brings his hands to his face and presses them against his eyes, as though he could erase the nightmares simply with pressure, and he sits and breathes as his heartbeat calms. His pyjamas are soaked and cold, clammy enough to raise goose bumps on his arms and legs, but he cannot bring himself to move for a few minutes. When he finally untangles his ankles from the twisted sheets and slides from the bed, two dogs wander up and nudge against his thighs. He gently pushes them away and staggers to the bathroom.

The birds are only just breaking into the dawn chorus and the light through the window is white and pale. Nevertheless, Will begins his morning rituals, knowing there is no more chance of sleep.

As he washes the sweat from his skin, he imagines for a few seconds that the water swirling down the drain is shaded rust-red.

The nightmare continues to plague his nights, appearing amidst other popular re-runs like the stag and Hobbs rising up before him. Those are involved nightmares, obviously inspired by real-life cases and no less terrifying for it. What Will has begun to dub the ‘blood bath’ dream is more of a mindless horror, just the absolute, breath-catching terror of being coated in blood. Will isn’t sure whose blood it is supposed to be; his or someone else’s, it makes very little difference. What makes this dream different is that it carries on even when his eyes are open. In that half-awake, half-asleep moment, the sweat on his skin is blood.

He’s almost grateful when Jack Crawford calls him in for another case. At the very least, he may get some new material for his nightmares, which would make a pleasant change.

 

-

 

‘Male, mid-twenties, found dead at his desk this morning. Time of death is apparently between seven and eight last night.’ Beverly reels off as Jack and Will arrive at the crime scene. 

Will looks up at the uninspiring building, a tall, grey block of concrete stuck to the landscape like a scab. It would almost be a relief to die here, he thinks.

‘Cause of death?’ Will asks, flicking his eyes to the collar of Jack’s shirt, where he can see a small splatter of something red. Sauce, probably. _Blood,_ his fevered mind throws up. Will ignores it.

‘Some kind of poison,’ Jack says. ‘No obvious signs of damage to the body, that the coroners can see, but traces of oleander leaves were found in his drink.’

‘His co-workers – the ones we’ve interviewed, anyway – all say that he stayed behind to do a little extra work.’

‘That was unusual?’

‘They certainly seemed to think so. They all confirmed the victim was very much for the mantra ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’. Um. No offence, sir.’

Jack waves his hand dismissively.

They take the cramped, creaky lift to the fourth floor. The body is spread-eagled on the carpet between two desks, a mug lying on its side mere centimetres from his right hand. His face is contorted with pain and his clothes are creased and stained with sweat. The whole room smells of vomit and Beverly and Jack hold their hands up to their noses in an attempt to stave off the fumes. Will simply stares at the body. He closes his eyes, breathes, and then opens his eyes.

‘Whoever I am, I hate this man,’ he says. ‘But I don’t show it outwardly. This is a planned crime; it feels like revenge.’

‘Revenge? For what?’

‘I can’t tell. Not enough evidence.’  
‘What makes you so sure it was planned?’ Beverly asks, intrigued.

‘The poison – whatever it was – would have had to have been prepared beforehand. Stewed, or mixed, or… something.’ Will realises he knows very little about poisons. ‘This isn’t a sudden crime of passion. This is calculated.’

‘And revenge?’

‘Why else would you plan to kill someone?’ Jack asks.

It’s a good point, although Will can immediately think of several crushing counterarguments. He holds his tongue, however, for in this case Jack is correct. 

‘The murderer knew this man, even if the man had forgotten the murderer,’ Will thinks aloud. ‘He obviously accepted a drink from them without a qualm.’

‘Hmm.’ Katz doesn’t look entirely convinced.

Will has a more pressing question to ask Jack.

‘What made you call this suspicious?’ he asks the man. ‘This strikes me as the kind of thing you people write off as a suicide straight away.’

‘We probably would have, if we hadn’t had an almost identical corpse crop up not three days ago around twenty miles from here.’

‘What?’ Will is momentarily confused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’

‘I needed a profiler’s perspective of this crime before I could properly announce the connection,’ Jack says, ‘but you have pretty much just proved what I believed to be the case. Both victims were found the morning after their deaths, neither have any history of mental illness of depression, and both of them are the same age, same gender… they even look something alike.’

‘He looks like the typical blond, all-american guy to me,’ Beverly comments. ‘The kind of guy who eats his own body weight in burgers but still somehow manages to have a six pack.’

Jack shoots her a look, and she shuts up. Will just shakes his head, as though trying to dislodge water from his ears.

‘So… you believe it’s the same person, who killed both of these men?’

‘We’re almost positive,’ Jack agrees. ‘The toxicology report from the last one said it was oleander leaves stewed into some sort of tea that killed Mark Lewis, the first victim. Jackson Bates here seems to have exactly the same hallmarks.’

‘Vomit, excessive sweating?’

‘That sort of thing, yes.’

Will mulls it over in his mind, as a connoisseur would swill a fine wine around his mouth.

‘I don’t know much else,’ he says finally, defeated. There aren’t enough trademarks for him to catch, not enough paper sticking up for him to dig his nails under. There’s nothing more he can do at the scene of the crime.

 

-

 

Will isn’t sure when he started going to Dr Lecter to troubleshoot ideas, but it has turned out to be an effective technique. And Hannibal had invited him for dinner that evening, anyway.

‘What does the murder weapon tell you?’ Hannibal asks as he refills Will’s glass. The wine swishes dangerously close to the rim, and a small ruby drop slides down the stem. Before it reaches the white tablecloth, Lecter sweeps it up with a finger and sucks it from his skin.

‘Poison? Not much. It’s so dispassionate,’ Will grumbles, swirling the wine in his glass and watching as the gentle candlelight lights the red liquid aflame.

‘On the contrary, I believe it to be one of the more passionate choices,’ Hannibal says, retreating to his seat and raising his glass to his lips. ‘Poison is often the choice of lovers who would rather die than part, after all. Shakespeare, I believe, is most famous for it.’

Will grudgingly agrees.

‘This isn’t star-crossed lovers, though,’ he says, idly spearing a green bean and lifting it part-way to his mouth. ‘This is revenge, I’m sure of it.’

‘And I’m sure you are right. Perhaps you are losing faith in your abilities?’

‘There’s something about this case that I can’t see,’ Will says, frustration clear and embarrassing in his voice. ‘It’s like I’m looking through blurry glasses, and everything is out of focus.’

‘Then I would advise you to change the prescription.’

Will begins to snort derisively, but pauses. 

‘Poison…’ he says slowly. ‘What type of person would use poison, do you think?’

‘Someone who does not wish to get their hands dirty?’ Hannibal asks, a strange sneer on his lips. 

Will shakes his head.

‘Yes, but also someone who maybe doesn’t have the physical strength to overcome their victim. Both the victims were young, burly men in their late twenties. It would hardly be easy to subdue them.’

Hannibal smiles then, suddenly and brilliantly, and Will knows that they have reached the same conclusion.

‘Poison is a woman’s weapon,’ Will says. ‘That’s why I’ve been having trouble with it. I’ve been looking at the case from the wrong angle.’

‘You are also sleep-deprived and ill-nourished,’ Hannibal chides gently. ‘We should focus on eating now, and leave the case for the morning.’

‘I’m not a child, Dr Lecter,’ Will says.

‘But neither are you taking good care of yourself. Therefore, it falls to others. You will be of little use to your students or Jack Crawford if you do not eat well and sleep well.’

Will, instead of retorting, focusses on his food. Hannibal is right, even though Will wishes he wasn’t.

That evening he sleeps heavily with only minor disturbances during the night. In the morning he strongly suspects Dr Lecter of slipping him a mild sedative in his after-dinner green tea.

 

-

 

‘A woman?’ Jack asks the next morning, when Will tells him of his idea.

‘I believe so,’ Will nods. 

Jack gives a long exhale, lifting his shoulders and his ribs before breathing heavily through his nose like an angry bull.

‘We’ll look into any shared acquaintances,’ he says. ‘Is there anything else we can do?’

‘Not at the moment,’ Will replies, feeling a little obsolete. Despite the previous night’s breakthrough, he still gets frustratingly little from the case. Usually, when the killer has arranged the body, Will can use it like a window into the killer’s mind – poison removes that ability. He feels like he’s peering through poor-quality binoculars at a scene on someone else’s TV; the details are indistinct, and there’s no sound at all.

It makes a nice change, actually, a challenge he has never really faced before. Sometimes the ease at which he slipped into another’s damaged psyche scared him. This time, he was struggling. It puts his mind at ease a little. He feels less like a criminal.

 

-

 

Hannibal extracts the key components of the case from a sleepy, sedated, tipsy Will. After he’s guided Will into a taxi and sent him safely home, Hannibal reaches for his office phone. The number he needs is written down in the phonebook in the second drawer of his desk, in which he has all of his patients’ names and addresses and numbers down in his neat cursive.

He finds the number almost straight away, and he dials without hesitation.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice answers him, low and throaty, as though she had just finished having a good laugh. 

‘This is Dr Lecter, Mrs Anderson,’ Hannibal says. ‘I should hope you remember me.’

 

-

 

A day later and Hannibal sits in a small glass conservatory. As Mrs Anderson steeps the tea, Hannibal takes the chance to examine the changes in her over the years; her large smile remains almost untouched, but her face is on the brink of surrendering to ageing.

‘Leah, please,’ she insists. She passes him a delicate china cup and saucer, in which a slim slice of lemon floats in an aromatic tea. ‘I believe we could be called old friends.’

She is not an unattractive woman, although she is a riot of inconsistencies. Her dull auburn hair is smooth and shining but scraped messily away from her face, and she wears faded jeans and Wellington boots with a t-shirt and a string of expensive pearls. Earlier, when she had answered the door, she had removed her gardening gloves to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. She wears heavy mascara but there is a smudge of dirt on her cheekbone. 

‘You are well?’ Hannibal asks, taking an appreciative sniff of his cup. 

Leah sits across from him and crosses her legs.

‘I am, very,’ she replies. Hannibal looks out through the glass windows at the gardens and greenhouses beyond. The sun shines brightly through the windows and reflects off the white, Spartan furniture. Small, ornate pots scattered about the room all overflow with wide green leaves and flowers of every shape and colour. The heady scent of pollen hangs in the air.

‘Your gardens are looking delightful,’ he adds. 

Leah’s face breaks into a shining smile.

‘Thank you,’ she says, straightening her back a little. ‘Sometimes I find it hard to believe just well my little enterprise is running.’

‘An enterprise you cannot afford to lose by returning to old tricks,’ Hannibal states plainly. Leah’s smile vanishes.

‘I can assure you I haven’t,’ she replies stiffly. ‘You know better than any other that I put that life behind me.’

‘And yet, there have been two deaths already this week, both by your trademark.’ Hannibal raises an eyebrow. ‘You cannot really believe I would not join the dots.’

‘I promise you I haven’t poisoned anyone,’ Leah insists, and the hand holding her cup shakes ever so slightly. She puts it back down onto its saucer before any of the hot tea slops out the side.

‘I thought, considering that we are old friends, that you deserved a warning,’ Hannibal says, taking a sip of his tea and finding it delightful. ‘The FBI are smarter than they used to be. They’ve become apt at using…natural resources. They will catch you, eventually.’

‘I can promise you, Hannibal, that I am not the criminal this time,’ Leah says.

Hannibal sees enough honesty in her face to convince him. He knows what she looks like when confessing a truth, whether it be good or bad, and it is clear to him that she is not lying.

‘Very well,’ he says, and smiles. The tension flows from the room as she smiles tentatively back.

They spend the rest of the visit making polite, banal conversation, but when Hannibal goes to leave, Mrs Anderson places a hand on the sleeve of his suit.

‘I’ll make gentle enquiries, if you want,’ she offers. ‘I might be able to help you point your natural resources in the right direction.’

Hannibal turns to face her fully and gives her a wide, genuine smile.

‘Ah, so you have heard of William Graham?’

‘Who hasn’t?’ she says. ‘The man who can see through the eyes of a killer. It was all over the papers. I bet he’s a real feast for a psychiatrist like yourself.’

‘Very much so,’ Hannibal replies.

‘I’ll call you if I find anything,’ she promises as Hannibal turns to go. Hannibal wonders whether Leah Anderson could dig anything up about the case, and for once is uncertain. Mrs Anderson is easy to read when she sits across from him, but when she is out of his line of sight she is unpredictable.

 

-

 

Will dreams of poison, which he decides makes a welcome change from blood and gore.

He dreams of carefully preparing the deadly drink, of selecting the brightest leaves and drying them out, then stewing them in a freshly-washed teapot. He dreams of handing Jackson Bates a steaming mug with a bright smile and an almost flirty laugh. Rage and anticipation simmers beneath his chest, speeding up his heart and making his upper lip sweat.

He watches as Bates drinks and flirts. The man hands him a hastily scrawled phone number on an old receipt. Despite feeling a little disgusted, Will takes the paper with a smile. 

Will leaves the building before the poison takes effect. He doesn’t have a strong enough stomach to watch the convulsions and vomiting he knows will shortly follow.

He clutches the piece of paper so hard on his journey home that the ink stains his sweaty palm, and he scrubs it off his hand so violently he leaves his skin red and raw. He thinks vaguely of Lady Macbeth. Unlike the Lady, the ink eventually leaves his hand and he remains spotless. The rage in his chest is quieter now, but still there.

Will wakes slowly for once, and blinks in surprise at the LED numbers on his alarm clock. It is half eight in the morning. He can’t remember the last time he woke up so late.

 

-

 

‘I think there’ll be another death soon,’ Will tells Jack. 

Jack raises an eyebrow.

‘What evidence points to that?’ he asks. 

Will bites his lip, wondering how to say _I dreamed it_ without sounding like he’d finally fallen off the deep end.

‘Intuition?’ he offers, sounding unsure even to his own ears. 

Jack shrugs.

‘If there is, there’s not much we can do about it right now. At the moment we’re going through the security footage, but quite a few people were entering and leaving that late in the day. And there isn’t a camera that looks over Bates’ cubicle. Anyone could have given him a drink.’

‘Tea,’ Will corrects. ‘It was probably offered under the guise of a herbal tea.’

‘That might help us narrow down the search,’ Jack says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘If you come up with anything else, give me a call.’

‘Of course,’ Will rolls his eyes, feeling a little irritated. He didn’t understand why people were determined to treat him like a child.

The rest of his day goes smoothly, but despite getting a few extra hours sleep that night he still feels drained and lethargic by the end of his lectures. Outside the sun is low in the sky and the slanted yellow rays are dappled by the trees he walks beneath. 

During their session, Hannibal watches Will rub his hands over his tired eyes. He does not remark on it, for which Will is pathetically grateful. They do very little other than discuss trivialities, such as music and art. Unsurprisingly, they have very different taste.

When Hannibal shows Will out, Will pauses with a hand on the door frame and turns back.

‘Dr Lecter. If you were going to kill someone for revenge, would you use poison?’

‘We are speaking hypothetically here, Will?’

‘Of course,’ Will splutters.

Hannibal gives him a shark’s smile.

‘No,’ he says decisively. ‘No, I do not think I would.’

‘It’s too passionate?’ Will queries, harking back to their previous conversation.

‘The damage is on the inside,’ Hannibal states, with a far-away look in his eyes. ‘For my revenge, I would want the world to see. And I am hardly like our supposedly female killer. I believe I could overpower someone who was not expecting me to attack, without having to resort to poison.’

Will stares at the carpet and thinks.

‘Would you, Will?’ 

The question throws him momentarily, and he actually looks up into Hannibal’s eyes for a second or two.

‘No,’ he says, after dipping his gaze to the doctor’s tie. ‘I don’t think I would.’

‘Well, then. Goodnight, Will.’

Will leaves with his mind buzzing like a chain saw.

 

-

 

The FBI take an insufferably long time to sort through the reams of security footage, so Will is left with nothing to do but think on the poison cases for the next couple of days. He gets more sleep than usual, but his dreams are heavy and busy, leaving him feeling drained in the morning.

Will eventually decides that his biggest stumbling block is his lack of knowledge about poisons. If he knew as much about plants and their deadly properties as he did about various ways to slice the bodies of victims to reach certain organs, he would have discovered more about the poisoner.

The internet is his fist port of call, but all the information is disjointed and self-contradictory. Will knows he needs an expert.

Before he can do much more research, however, another body is found poisoned, and Jack calls him in once more.

‘Hemlock, this time,’ Jack says, as he gives Will a lift to the crime scene. ‘Otherwise, it pretty much matches up with both of the other bodies; young, athletic males in their middle twenties.’

‘Where was this one found?’

‘Just like the other two, he was killed at work. Co-workers found him this morning when they opened up the garage.’

‘He was a mechanic?’

‘That’s the only difference; the other two were normal office workers.’

Katz is already at the scene, an indecent look of excitement on her face.

‘We’ve found another connection,’ she beams as Will and Jack climb out of the car. ‘All three men were in the same high school; all in the same soccer team. I knew that other guy was the ultimate jock.’

Jack rants at his team – ‘How did we miss this before?’ – and Will continues past the police tape, into the garage.

Connor Whitman is sprawled on the dirty concrete floor at the back of the garage. The crime scene is very similar to the last; a dead body, face contorted with pain. Will wonders why the poison was changed, wonders why if it is significant, and curses his ignorance.

Will scans the room; there are flowers in the bin that fill the air with the heady scent of pollen. A mug lies on its side, the handle broken off and scattered about two metres away. Whatever was in the mug has long since sunk into the concrete, leaving behind a slight stain.

He closes his eyes – and opens them. 

He walks into the garage, and Whitman greets him enthusiastically. Whitman trusts him, recognises him vaguely, and invites him into the back of the garage, where he is handed a bunch of bright, strong smelling flowers. With a fake smile, Will takes them, and offers to make coffee before they leave. Conner Whitman nods, and takes off his oil-stained overalls while Will makes the drinks using the old coffee-maker in the corner. The small bottle of distilled hemlock hangs heavily in his coat pocket; Will palms it and dribbles it into the mug he then hands to Connor Whitman.

He stays to watch Connor Whitman die, mainly to make sure he doesn’t leave the garage or phone for help. As the man’s tremors die down, Will feels a heavy weight vanish from his chest, and he knows that – finally – it’s over. It’s done.

Will opens his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Jack’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder.

‘Anything?’ Jack asks, and he squeezes Will’s shoulder gently.

‘This was the last one,’ Will says. ‘There were three. Three men she wanted revenge on. And now they’re all dead.’

‘How did she get in?’

‘I don’t think any of them recognised her; Connor Whitman had asked her on a date. The flowers…’ Will gestures weakly at the bin. ‘He must have stayed late to wait for her.’

‘That’s what his boss said,’ Beverly chimes in from behind. ‘Mr McConnaughy. He said Connor had asked to be the one to close up shop because he wanted time to clean up, and that his date was meeting him here.’

‘Does his boss know who his date was?’ Jack asks.

‘Nope,’ Beverly says, popping the p. ‘Only that Connor used to know her from school.’

‘Right,’ Jacks says. ‘Looks like we finally have something to link them all together. If we can find a girl from their year who has a reason to want them dead, we’ve got our killer.’

Will somehow can’t imagine the case closing as neatly as that.

 

-

 

His session with Hannibal yields very little, as Will is too snappish to deal with anything intrusive. Nevertheless, Hannibal does not press him, and instead fetches him a calming cup of chamomile tea. While the doctor is out of the room, Will wanders over to his desk.

For Hannibal, the desk is unusually messy. Will catches sight of an open address book, and a business card caught in the centre crease. He cranes his head to read the dark cursive writing on the olive green background.

Before he can read anything, Hannibal’s voice calls him from the kitchen. Will jerks his head away, feeling guilty at almost being caught spying into Hannibal’s private notes.

 

\- 

 

Will continues to search for poisons online that night, and finds a website for _Anderson’s Botanical Gardens and Conservatory for Rare plants_. The homepage background is the same olive green as the business card on Hannibal’s desk, and Will is immediately suspicious. The Conservatory itself looks to be a glorified garden centre for those who liked refinement along with soil up their nails, and Will has to admit that it is right up Hannibal’s street, what with the many herbs and spices he scatters onto his food.

His desire for knowledge battles momentarily with his general anxiety, but eventually he decides to visit the conservatory the next day.

He sleeps badly again, and walks into the gleaming reception of the botanical gardens feeling scruffy and out of place. The secretary, a young woman with a round, sweet face, opens her eyes wide when he displays his temporary FBI badge. She immediately calls in her boss. 

Mrs Leah Anderson does not seem put off by Will’s general appearance and bad manners; on the contrary, the way she invites him to sit in her office and offers him tea reminds him slightly of Hannibal.

‘I was wondering how much you knew about poisons,’ Will asks, not wanting to be there longer than he absolutely has to.

The secretary stumbles in carrying a tray laden with a teapot and two delicate cups. As she hands him a cup, Will’s hand brushes ever so slightly against her fingers. She flinches and pulls back, her face twitching in panic. 

‘I know a lot about most plants, including which ones are poisonous and which ones are not.’ Mrs Anderson smiles, drawing Will’s attention away from the secretary. ‘What poisons are you interested in, Mr Graham?’

‘Oleander and Hemlock,’ he says, staring into his delicate teacup.

‘Oleander… well, that is a very poisonous plant. Very deadly too, all of its parts, from the flower to the stem.’

‘I know that it acts immediately,’ Will offers.

‘True; whereas Hemlock, you’ll find, takes thirty minutes to take effect. And by that time, it is too late.’

‘Does hemlock cause hallucinations?’ Will asks, frowning slightly. ‘Or unconsciousness?’

‘Oleander does,’ Mrs Anderson says, taking a small sip of her tea. ‘Hemlock leaves the mind clear to feel the intense pain of muscle death. It is not a nice way to die, Mr Graham.’

Will blinks, and the last pieces slot into place.

Hemlock, for the last victim, because the murderer wanted Connor Whitman to suffer more than the others. Whatever the poisoner was getting revenge for, Connor had been the ringleader of the three men. Or boys, perhaps, when the event occurred.

Hannibal’s words flashed into his brain.

_‘The damage is on the inside.’_

Will thinks of the young secretary, the way she’d flinched at the skin contact between them. She hadn’t even flickered an eyelash when Mrs Anderson had steadied her hand while pouring the tea. He thinks of her wide-eyed stare at the sight of his badge. He thinks that she looks to be mid-twenties.

He looks up into the young woman’s eyes and recognises what he sees in their depths.

When he tries to stand, his vision blurs and his muscles lock into place. The teacup falls from his fingers and smashes against the tiled floor.

‘A pity,’ Leah Anderson says, her voice indistinct and her face foggy. ‘I quite liked that china set.’

Will falls hard to his knees and twists sideways, his cheek hitting the cold floor with enough force to make him cry out. He tries to speak, but only manages to groan. 

‘Now now, Mr Graham,’ Mrs Anderson says, and Will sees her shadow leaning over him. Cool, calloused fingertips brush against his face and remove his glasses. He reaches up towards the small coffee table with a leaden arm but he can’t get a grip on anything. His flailing fingers knock the teapot onto the floor and hot tea hits his skin. He screams.

‘This was for your own good, Mr Graham,’ she says.

Will’s world becomes a maelstrom of colours and lights and disorienting sounds. He barely feels the pain.

The world melts away.

 

-

 

Hannibal is sitting at his desk, idly flicking through his collection of business cards, when his phone rings.

‘You have thirty minutes, Hannibal,’ Leah Anderson says. ‘And you owe me a favour just for giving you that.’

She hangs up with a click, and Hannibal flicks his eyes to his address book, and to the olive green card lying on his desk.

‘Oh, Will,’ he sighs.

He calls the ambulance and the FBI in the car and arrives at the Conservatory before them. Leah Anderson and her employees are gone. No doubt they left just after her phone call. Hannibal doesn’t blame them; he isn’t feeling exactly charitable towards Mrs Anderson right now. He doubts the FBI does, either.

No doors are locked, and Hannibal strides straight through to the small room where he and Mrs Anderson drank tea. Now the floor is littered with ceramic shards, delicately patterned with gold leaves. Will lies on his back in a pool of split tea, his body twitching violently, small moans slipping through his clenched teeth. His eyes are open, but his pupils are hugely dilated. 

Hannibal quickly crosses the room and kneels next to Will, ignoring the tea sinking into his trousers. Will flinches away and tries to fight him off, pushing at Hannibal’s chest and shoulders whilst simultaneously twisting his body away. Hannibal grasps his wrists, trying to hold him still, stopping him from thrashing against the furniture and injuring himself. Will’s skin is burning hot and shining with sweat, his heart as fast as a hummingbird’s.

‘Shhh, Will,’ Hannibal says, ‘shhh.’ He transfers Will’s wrists to one hand as his flailing lessens, and uses his free hand to smooth Will’s wet hair from his forehead. Then he hoists Will up, his hand buried in Will’s mass of curly hair. Will’s breath is hot and quick on Hannibal’s neck.

‘Shhh,’ he repeats, rocking slightly. ‘Shhh.’

When the ambulance arrives, Will is quieter, still twitching and mumbling nonsense into Hannibal’s skin, but with a calmer heart and cooler skin. Hannibal watches as Will is taken away on a stretcher, off to the hospital for gastric lavage.

Jack arrives along with a couple of other FBI agents. He stands next to Hannibal as the ambulance speeds off down the road.

‘We’d just discovered our killer when we got your call,’ Jack says.

‘You were quicker than Will this time, I think,’ Hannibal replies. ‘He did not know he was walking into the lion’s den until it was too late.’

‘How did you know he was in danger?’ Jack asks. 

‘The owner of this establishment is an old patient of mine,’ Hannibal says, his voice and face inscrutable. ‘She phoned me when our killer poisoned Will. I think perhaps she believed she owed me a favour.’

‘Mrs Leah Anderson? She's been a suspect before, from a case way back. From what I remember, that involved poisoning too.’

‘She was never convicted, Agent Crawford.’

‘No, she wasn’t.’ Jack clasps his hands behind his back and turns to face Hannibal slightly. ‘How did Will know to come here?’

‘He found her card in my desk, when I left him to make tea.’

Jack rolled his eyes.

 

-

 

When Will opens his eyes to see Hannibal and Jack at his bedside, his last discovery pours from him like pus from an open wound.

‘It was the secretary at the Conservatory,’ he gasps. ‘She was at school with the three victims, and she was their victim, probably from sexual assault or similar, which is why she wanted revenge –‘

Then there is a large, warm hand on his shoulder and Hannibal is looking him right in the eyes.

‘We know,’ Jack says from the door.

‘Breathe, Will,’ Hannibal says.

Will does.

‘Kasey Trent filed a report about the three boys at school around seven years ago,’ Jack continues. ‘She accused them of raping her. The school glossed over it because bystanders said she was drunk and the three boys were best sportsmen in their year.’ Jack snorts in disgust. ‘For once, I can almost see why she did it.’

Will gets his breathing under control and leans back against his pillows, helped along by the press of Hannibal’s hand.

‘Was she working alone, Will?’ Jack asks. ‘We know she was working for Mrs Anderson at the Conservatory –‘

‘She killed them alone,’ Will says, reaching up to press his fingers against his temples. ‘Mrs Anderson had nothing to do with the deaths.’

‘She poisoned you, though,’ Jack points out. ‘Or, at least, watched as Miss Trent poisoned you.’

‘She did it to escape,’ Will says. ‘The girl – Kasey Trent?’

Jack nods.

‘She panicked, thought I was proper FBI there to arrest her. I didn’t realise until too late.’

‘Are you saying Mrs Anderson had nothing to do with it?’ Jack asks, incredulous. 

Will looks away from Jack only to catch a strange expression in Hannibal’s eyes. He stares down at the white bed sheets and scrapes at a speck of dirt with his fingernails.

‘Mrs Anderson may have wanted to help Kasey Trent escape,’ Will shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. All I can see is Kasey…’

His voice trails away as he remembers his visions, wrapped in the slimy embrace of the hallucinogenic. Three faceless attackers had held him down, laughed and joked and grinned. He can’t tell if Mrs Anderson was involved or not. All he feels is Kasey’s impotent rage and fear and pain. Above all, he feels the dirty, thick shame welling deep in his throat and pounding in his head. It was this feeling that had been causing his heady nightmares since the case began. Only now he can name it.

_The damage is on the inside._

‘Never mind,’ Jack sighs. ‘We don’t have any idea where either of them have gone, anyway.’

He pauses at the door, and looks back at Will with a softer, friendlier expression.

‘Get better,’ he says, finally, before leaving.

Hannibal says nothing, and fetches Will a glass of water.

‘It sounds awful, but… I’m glad she managed to kill them,’ Will whispers. 

Hannibal’s face remains unchanged. 

‘Revenge is sometimes the most satisfying meal,’ he acknowledges, as he sits down on the chair beside Will’s bed.

‘No,’ Will says, shaking his head. ‘Not… satisfying. More like she’s been released from something.’

Hannibal’s fingertips skim the skin of Will’s wrist, tracing around the shunt in his vein. 

‘Perhaps you are happy she is free from her demons,’ Hannibal offers. 

Will nods, and swallows thickly, recognising the out that Hannibal has provided.

Because if he feels glad because those young men are dead, then doesn’t that make him a monster too?

Will drops into sleep with Hannibal’s fingers resting on his wrist and monsters running through his mind.

 

-

 

‘I don’t feel like a monster,’ Will admits.

‘Do you think that Connor Whitman and his friends felt like monsters?’

‘No.’ Will feels petulant now. ‘But they harmed an innocent person.’

‘So, your conscience is clear if you only harm monsters?’

Hannibal’s smile is off-centre and strangely inward. Will shrugs and stares into his wine glass. The low light glints white gold in its centre.

‘I suppose you could say that,’ he replies. ‘But then, who decides what makes a monster?’

‘Very true.’ Hannibal nods. ‘You would need to feel powerful enough to decide.’

‘Kasey Trent felt powerful when she killed those men. She was taking back what they stole.’

‘And she has not yet been caught, I understand?’

‘Jack’s practically frothing at the mouth.’ Will’s mouth twitches into an approximation of a smile. ‘The FBI, outwitted by a girl fresh from college.’

‘Can you still feel her, Will?’

‘Not so much now,’ he says. And it’s true. He can imitate the feelings of people around him, but if they are gone, he loses sight of what it feels like to be them; there are so many others still around. 

Hannibal Lecter is probably the only person Will has been able to use as a mirror. He uses Hannibal to see himself more clearly.

Will wonders if Hannibal does the same to him.

_The damage is on the inside._

‘Do you still dream of her attack?’ Hannibal asks, suddenly surprisingly gentle.

‘No,’ Will says. And it’s true. The dreams of blood have returned with a vengeance. He wakes up drowning in it. The blood of monsters.

‘Thank you, by the way,’ Will says, as Hannibal gets up to refill his glass. Hannibal walks to Will’s chair and tops up the half-full glass cradled in Will’s palm. ‘For when… I was poisoned.’

‘It was no problem.’ Hannibal leans in close to make sure no drop is spilt.

Will can smell his expensive aftershave and the soap on his neck. That smell had calmed him down when all he could see were monsters trying to rip him apart from the inside out. 

He closes his eyes as he breathes it in. He doesn't see Hannibal’s small smile.


End file.
